Lonely Nights
by Muffins Planned
Summary: A lonely Friday nights with a pager. Only House could make it both better and worse. Written for an LJ fic-a-thon.


Title: _Lonely nights_  
Pairing; House/Cameron  
Rating; PG-13  
Summary: A lonely Friday nights with a pager. Only he could make it both better and worse.

A/N; To Peaceandwar over at LJ, who wanted angst, some illict drug and strawberry lip gloss, but no Chase/Cameron or any other pairing other than House/Cameron, fluff which makes "House look like a stuffed bear made by Grandma", and no babies.

* * *

She, a thirty-something woman now, was sitting in a bar alone on a Friday night, and trying not to think of the young couple in the background, and trying not to think of her own life falling to pieces.

How long was it now, that she had left him in his office with a goodbye she couldn't fullfill? Eight or nine months, maybe. It didn't matter, he wasn't around anymore, neither was she, and all she had was lonely Friday nights with a beeper lying on the bar in front of her.

No heavy drinking, not even beer. Of course she didn't follow that rule tonight, but the beer wasn't even that strong, it was just one step from being a soda only that it wasn't sold to people under twenty-one.

It was pathetic, how much she wished that her beeper would go off so she wouldn't have to get another sympathetic look from the man sitting not so far away with his wife. She had never liked beer, but still she was sitting there drinking it as the clock ticked by and her pager was quiet.

Her birthday was coming around soon, a week away or something like that. Maybe she would get a birthday card from her older brother, or flowers from her younger sister. It usually went like that. She twirled the glass on the wooden bar, the luquid inside threatening to spill over the edges and she twirled it extra hard. It was mainly frustration, that she couldn't get away and that she didn't want to get away when she should. All the chances she was given, run away so quickly that he wouldn't have known what hit him.

Once she quit, but even then when she hadn't become so involved she still came back. Eight-nine months ago it was the thought of being alone with him, only the two of them in that office she had shared with two others before, and what it might've brought.

It wasn't that she didn't like House, quite contrary, but then she ran away from it, because nothing scared her more than committment that might actually last.

He, closing in on fifty, stumbled into the bar, with the alcohol he had already drunken in his office in his bloodstream. He was familiar with longing, of missing someone. He'd been missing something all his life. But the place she didn't fill in his office was different. How could he dare to admit that, show that?

It should've been easier, watching her leave for the second time, this time so much closer but still further away. Her loose grip on his wrist shouldn't have burned with realisation.

Bitterness. Three new people, unfamiliar and not them. Not her.

He would never change, but she did, and it chocked him how much like betrayal it felt. He wanted her to change, to strip away that naivety and make her see the world for what it truly was. Right?

It chocked him how much she made him doubt himself. He was sure that phase should've been over and done with long ago.

Neither of them saw each other first, she too busy watching the bottom of her glass and he in too much pain to think of anything else than the next step. Still, he sat down just next to her, accidently pushing her and she looked up quickly expecting to see a flushed face of a strange man trying to pick her up.

_It didn't happen that often anymore, it was like there was a neon sign above her head that said over thirty. She never thought she would miss it, but it was a confirmation that she looked good __even though she already knew it_.

But this man was no stranger, this was a face she could pick out of any crowd. She knew his full name, date of birth, met his parents, kissed him and had given him his coffee for four years every morning, but still they had never been in any relationship.

Something tore at that hole in her heart whenever she saw him now, and this time was no exception. His smell was too much so close, and she almost wanted to move so she could think clearly, but she sat still and watched his face as he barked to the bartender that he wanted a scotch. Two seconds after that he was scanning the bar, first the right side and then he turned towards her, did a double take before his eyes focused on her face.

"Huh," was all he responded with, his eyebrows raised, and then turned back to his scotch.

She wanted to impress him, do something that would make him look at her like he used to before everything got too bad. But she couldn't say anything that would impress him anymore. He had accepted it, almost, that she was not what she seemed, but yet exactly that. Was it only the mystery that interseted him, and when did she stop being a mystery? No more surprises it seemed.

Suddenly he picked up her pager and looked at it, she had put a sticker on it a while ago to make it easier to find if she put it somewhere it wasn't supposed to be put. In the dim light of the bar it glowed slightly.

"Bambi," he stated and put it down, then poured the rest of his scotch down his troath. What was he doing there on a Friday night, where was Wilson? Once again she twirled the glass in her hands, looking up at the clock that was ticking closer and closer to ten and her pager was quiet.

It had been a long time since she could relax around him, every word that spilled from her mouth was calculated, weighed between pros and cons so that she wouldn't reveal herself, reveal the emotions she had just managed to hide away.

"What happened to your patient?" she asked after a while. It felt like ten minutes but it had only gone three. He glanced at her once before he stared down at the bar.

"Cured her," he replied.

"What was it?" Before, about a year ago now, she wouldn't have had to ask, she would've known. To cure a patient was always a thrill, and it was easy to let it get to your head, and then someone died and it was harder than it should've been.

"You quit, why do want to know?" This time he looked at her, half curious half asking to mind her own. Had he always been way, asking questions instead of answering them? She couldn't remember that anymore. Had it really been that long?

"I asked first," she reminded him, holding her pager in the palm of her hand. He stared at her and didn't say anything, playing with her, daring her to fold. Three years ago she wouldn't even have made it this far, now all she wanted was the strength to leave.

"I'm just trying to start up a conversation," she admitted after a while when he had stared at her too long. The way he stared at her reminded her of the dream she had as a teenager, the one where she walked around her high school knowing she was naked but had no controll over her body. It was like he could see through her somehow, he could separate the bullshit from the truth.

"Don't, I'm trying to get drunk here."

"And you can't do that while being social, that's kind of pathetic," she said, turning to look at him more closely. It had been a while since she could look at him like this. She had forgotten the darkening under his eyes, his thinning hair, small details that came back to her while she looked at him. He knew that she was watching him, and she knew that he knew, but still she watched.

"And you aren't, " he asked her, and interupted her thoughts, "sitting here a Friday night while you are on call when you could be at home or with your boyfriend," he was throwing it back at her, but it was true, everything.

"I don't have a boyfriend," she said, turning away from him again. How could she say to her former boss that she couldn't enter a new relationship knowing that she would always have much stronger feelings for him, and that if she couldn't be with another man when she wasn't sure if she wanted someone else. She was sure she would sound like a stalker.

"And that is information I want?"

"I figured you wanted to know everything," she smiled, hoping that he wouldn't see how fake it was, she was. But he didn't look at her.

"Right, that's true," he admitted. "Can I have another scotch, please?"

"No, he's not having another scocth, how are you going to get home?"

"You're going to drive me," he smirked.

"Nice of you to ask me, and what if I'm needed in the ER?"

"Take me with you then," it seemed so simple to him. Too simple.

Closing in on eleven thirty he was drunk and her pager hadn't been this quiet for two months.

"I like your ass," he said as he finished the last of his scotch. She only raised and eyebrow and noted that it was the third time he had said this in the last hour.

"I'm guessing you don't need anything more to drink, you're smiling," she said, and he shook his head, his smile disappearing.

"I'm not smiling, you're smiling," he pointed at her, his eyes narrowing.

"Don't try to pick an argument with me, I'm not Wilson," she said just as the bartender came up to them and took his glass away.

"Hey, I'm paying you, give my glass back," he shouted at the bartender who looked at her, seeking help. She wanted to tell him that she had no power over him, but she sensed that would do no good.

"House, I'm driving you home now," she sighed and stood up, attatching her pager to her hip.

"Y'know, that pager looks sexy on you."

"That is the worst pick up line I've ever heard."

"I doubt it, you are a magnet for idiots," he told her as she helped him up, letting him lean on her while he picked up his cane.

"I'm not a-."

"I didn't mean it litterally," he said while rolling his eyes.

"I know, are you ok walking?" He leaned on his cane and took one wobbly step before stopping dead in his tracks.

"My head is spinning," he stated, looking back at her.

"And that's weird," she muttered sarcastically, and put his right arm around her neck and put her left arm behind his back hoping that he wasn't too drunk and would be able to actually walk a little. He had made a promise once, that he wouldn't crush her, and at that moment she really hoped that he would keep it.

To walk out of the bar and down the street towards her car took five minutes, and it left her neck hurting. So when he was finally sitting in the passanger seat and she in front of the wheel she hoped that by some miracle he would sober up immensly during the ten minute ride to his house.

"Your car is too small," he stated and looked down to where his knees were touching the dashboard.

"Pull the chair back then," she said and started the car.

It was dark outside, the only thing lighting the streets up were the streetlights on the side of the road. He didn't say anything, just stared out the window. They passed a group of teenagers standing on the street, a few of them obviously drunk, trying to climb up a streetlamp. It was long ago since she was a teenager, and when she was she never went out with friends to climb up a streetlight. Would it be too much of her to ask about how he was as a teenager, or would he think she was just trying to figure him out like he used to try to figure her out?

At a red light she turned to look at him and found him looking at her. The red light hit the dash board and lit up his face. He looked dangerous. A part of him was dangerous; the person who took risks, the one who took drugs but claimed for a long time he wasn't an addict. But he was a doctor, following his own rules of right and wrong. He would never do something he didn't think was right, and if the years she spent working for him told her anything it was that he would never hurt anyone intentionally, only if he thought the other person would gain something from it.

She pulled up in front of his house, but both of them stayed in the car, waiting for something to happen. What would it take for him to make the first move, she wondered, was there a chance of something like that happening?

She helped him out of the car supported him as the walked towards his door.

"Where's your key?" she asked when they stopped at his door, his arm was till around her, pressing her into his warm chest and sticky coat.

"In my jeans," he smirked while looking down at her.

"Get them out then," she demanded while looking up at him.

"No, you get them out."

"House," she warned him, and he rolled his eyes and took away the arm around her neck.

"Blondes do not have more fun, you were way more fun as a brunette," he said sullenly and retreaved his keys from his jeans pocket.

"That's because I never got to the point where I stabbed you," she reminded him as the door opened and once again felt his arm weigh down on her shoulders.

"I never figured you were into rough sex."

"That was a kiss, not sex," she sighed and pulled his arm from around her shoulder and let him fall down on his couch.

She looked around his apartment, comparing it to how it looked three years ago when she resigned right there inside the door. If she closed her eyes she could still see him standing in front of her, refusing to accept her resignment. To walk away then was hard, she had to force herself to take each step towards her car, but it had taken twenty minutes before she even opened her car door.

Even then she was attatched to him in some way, she had wanted to wipe away her tears and go back and say she didn't want to quit any more, but was then reminded of what could happen if she stayed. She couldn't see what she saw then, not even a glimps, all she remembered what that she didn't like what she saw. But then he came to her apartment, wanting her back. A date, she had demanded, stupid and naive. She learnt her lesson after that. It could've been nice, but she backed him into a corner.

On his piano textbooks filled the surface, only leaving enough space to put down a glass.

This was the part where she didn't know what to do, should she stay or go. She looked at House expecting to find an answer there, but he was taking something off of the coffee table to hide it, but she managed to get a glimps of it before it disappeared under the couch.

"Was that cocaine?"

"Only stupid people ask about things they already know, and I hope you're not stupid because that would give me a headache," he muttered while he lay down on the couch.

"House, that's illegal?"

"Cameron, I'm not a moron" he replied, mocking her while taking an orange vial out from his pocket and quickly opened the lid and took a pill, swallowing it dry.

"Where did you get it?"

"You don't want to know," he said with a smile, and looked up at her mischeivingly.

"House, you of all people-,"

"Do you still wear that lipgloss?" She stopped and stared at him, confused. He could take the conversation where ever he wanted now, because she was too tired to keep up with him, it took too much energy to sheild herself from his poking and prodding. Right then she wanted to surrender with both arms in the air and tell him she would give him what ever he wanted.

"What lipgloss?"

"The one that tastes strawberry, or at least should taste strawberry."

"No, I don't wear lipgloss anymore," she admitted, sitting down on the coffee table, watching him. He had his eyes closed, and would probably fall asleep soon, and then she would have to leave again to be alone yet another night.

"I liked it," he said, and she smiled even though he couldn't see her. Or it was because he couldn't see her.

"I liked it too." The truth was that she stopped wearing it after their kiss, it reminded her too much of what she couldn't have, and she didn't want any other memories associated with that lipgloss.

Soon he was breathing steadily, and she was sitting on his coffee table watching him sleep. It wasn't like this was the first time she'd seen him sleep, he'd done it pletny of times in his office, but somehow this was different.

How do you stop loving someone when you don't really want to, she asked herself. She was torn between protecting herself from him and walking up to him and kiss him. Every time he passed her she wanted to stop him and kiss him, right in front of everyone, and there was really nothing stopping her. Yet she never did it, not even when there was only the two of them and that young couple in the bar.

She took the bag of cocaine out from under the couch and walked away from the couch, walked out of the door and out onto the street. It was easier knowing that she would soon see him again, then she could leave without too much trouble.

But she knew, she was thirty-something and the only man she wanted was lying on his couch unconcious after too drinking too much alcohol yet again.


End file.
